


Dacha

by Prostranstvo



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prostranstvo/pseuds/Prostranstvo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baking in the morning makes Ocelot nostalgic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dacha

Mornings were always the best time to bake. It wasn't something Ocelot decided himself, that's just how it was. Maybe it was due to the fact that food always tasted better after you first woke up. Maybe it had something to do with dough rising better when it's cooler. Maybe it was because at 5AM nobody was awake to see him in an apron, not that he minded the apron, one should always wear a proper uniform for whatever mission they are assigned. Regardless of what the reason was, the fact was that when the sun was just about to peak over the endless blue horizon of the churning ocean surrounding them, every Sunday morning Ocelot got up to bake. 

It was something he learned how to do a very long time ago in a place that he no longer considered his home. Back when he was old enough to use a gun, but still too young to use it properly, he did odd jobs in the kitchen of one of a dozen anonymous GRU base camps just outside of Penza. The chef was an older man, with a round face and a large button nose that reddened at the tip, who before the Revolution was a student in Saint Petersburg. 

“I was studying zoology of all things,” he said between chopping cabbages. The blonde boy looked at the way the knife shone in the darkness of the poorly lit mess hall like some kind of beacon. Between the sounds of knife hitting wood, the man talked of dreams he had of going to South America, to a warm place where he could study the diverse flora and fauna like his hero Darwin. He spoke of the wildlife there. His voice would rise with the mention of cockatoos, gibbons, venomous frogs, and even more poisonous snakes. It fell when he talked of the present and the future. “Then the revolution happened, and I am in the military now,” he said with a shrug as he wiped his blade clean on the back of his pants. Adamska did nothing but stare as the curls of potato skins gently fell into the dirt around his feet. 

Besides teaching him about wildlife, he also taught him about food. He was happy under Khrushchev, the cook said one winter day as he kneaded some dough underneath rough calloused hands. The young orphan helper he had dubbed _Leopardus pardalis_ , due to his fierce nature and blue eyes, scrubbed some pots in the corner. Under Stalin they had nothing, he mused. Under Khrushchev, they had bread. 

Under Big Boss they have Maxi Buns. 

Ocelot scoffed out loud at the absurdity of the thought. He was never one for American food, he thought whatever the hell hamburgers actually were tasted about as good as whatever the hell he ate out of John's backpack that one time, but John himself loved the stuff. Snake would eat anything, though. The man was a human garbage disposal. 

“Did you ever think that you got the name Snake because you don't chew your food?”, he said to the man sitting across from him one night in the mess hall. It was him, Miller, The Boss, and a bunch of guys from the R&D platform sitting around a table instead of whatever the hell they had better to do, because the second in command had demanded that they all try his newest recipe. Though he couldn't see Miller's eyes, he could feel them. For a guy with less than stellar vision, he could stare a hole through a damn wall. 

Boss just laughed with his mouth full, which caused sesame seeds to go flying everywhere and get caught in his beard. Ocelot desperately wanted to brush them off, to feel his coarse hair and soft leathery skin underneath the warmth of his own hands, but instead with a gloved thumb he gently stroked the gate of his gun watching helplessly while Miller reached for a napkin. Later that night Ocelot fed what was left of his helping to DD in disgust.

This though, what he was putting in the oven right now, this wasn't army rations, Miller's newest insane concoction of ground meat, or hospital food that you slowly digested while you were in a room with a man in a coma waiting for the day he says your name again. This was a recipe handed down by a grandmother to her brilliant grandson, a man who had his hopes dashed by war, and in return it was handed to him.

The smell of yeast rising and baking in the modest oven of Mother Base's mess hall crept into the corners of the room along with the soft golden light with the approaching dawn. Ocelot sat there, his apron still on and his spurred feet kicked up on the back of a chair, looking at the simple white egg timer near the sink. Every once in awhile he would spin the trigger guard of his gun around his index finger lazily, waiting for the bread to turn just the right golden shade of brown and to make sure the sweet cheese mixture in the meantime didn't burn. He got the ingredients for the filling from here of all places. Once of a kind Diamond Dog brand goat cheese from the Animal Conservation Platform. There were enough damn goats and sheep lying around to make the place lousy with high quality dairy, and he hated seeing the by product of their good work go to waste. 

Besides, he would rather see the animals used for this than consumed by Boss out on the field. He can't recall how many times he had to tell him you can't ride that donkey, or you can't eat that fallow deer no matter how tasty it looks, you're in the middle of a mission goddamnit and they are an endangered specie-

“What'cha making?”

The timer went off just as the man walked in the door. He took up the entire door frame, and the oncoming dawn danced in his chestnut hair illuminating ever so slightly the stray strands of grey that were slowly becoming more common on his head. He was covered in the dirt of a world who hated him and the dried blood of those who wanted him dead. The odor of his cigars that he loved and enough sweat to slightly dampen his clothes swirled and combined with the sweet smell of the now done dough.

“Back already?” the blonde said swallowing hard to hide the inflammation in his voice.

“Yeah, landed about ten minutes ago,” the older man said scratching his chin with the top of his large bruised knuckles. “I was on my way to the showers, but then I smelled something-”

“And your stomach got in the way of your head again?”

The larger man laughed, it was gravely and deep and genuine, and it was all Ocelot could do to use the back of the chair and the support from his ankles to stop his knees from buckling. When he was finally steady, he silently swung his legs around showing off an agility worthy of his moniker. His spurs clinked as they hit the floor, and with a spring in his step he reached for oven mitts. The larger man stood there, motionless as he merely watched his apron and mitten clad Intel officer bend over gracefully to retrieve what looked like a plate of doughnuts from the oven's sleek metal racks.

“They're vatrushka. It's an old Russian recipe. Now before you go eating anything-- and knowing you, you'll go eating everything-- they're hot and they have to cool down for a bit.”

Snake silently moved from his position leaning against the door frame and lumbered over to the tray. Regardless of Ocelots warnings The Boss picked one up gently between two gloved fingers and for a second merely observed it, turning it around in the now fully lit kitchen. The round golden disk of dough, open faced and filled with some kind of creme in the center, puckered slightly under his strength, but his restraint kept everything from crumbling altogether. It smelled almost like pancakes to him, and with his mouth open wide he popped the entirety of the still steaming confection into his mouth.

“Mmffphu hmm.”

“Boss, what have I told you about chewing? We've been over this. Honestly how many times do I have to tell yo-” he was interrupted by a hard swallow and the hard motion of the man's prominent Adam's apple and how much Adam himself wanted to kiss it. 

“I said, it was pretty good.”

Mother Base was just waking up in the background, he could hear the sounds of the cranes on the cargo bay revving up to receive shipments, and the clamor of steel boots on metal as the men began to change shifts and rounds. Somewhere in the background a lone Albatross cried out into the winds that carried it out to sea. He could hear the sound of his own breath deep and warm in his lungs, and he could hear John's breath, large lumbering inhales of air in between the mastication of what was left of what Adam had made with his own hands. With a swift motion Adam placed a long and thin finger on John's cheek to wipe away a crumb, and he heard his own breath slow down even further as the other man's shoulders large enough to carry the weight of the world shuddered and then relaxed under his touch. It was then that Adamska remembered why he no longer considered Russia his home. 

His home was here.

“Welcome home, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with this one.
> 
> EDIT: Thanks guys for the lovely comments and the warm welcome into the world of wonderful heartache that is the Metal Gear fandom. If there is anything I can improve upon, please let me know!


End file.
